Symbiosis
by Flobbergasted
Summary: "Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding hands." – Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter 9 (a missing moment)


**_Symbiosis_**

_A DH missing moment_

Disclaimer: Thank you for all you've done for us, J. K. Rowling. It's all yours, and we love it.

Originally published… elsewhere… with many thanks to PigWithHair, my Beta over yonder.

* * *

Cupboard door opening, glasses tinkling together, water running.

Hermione found herself distracted from her reading by the noises coming from the kitchen. She marked her page, set her book down and at last gave up on reading for the rest of the evening. Grimmauld Place had become shadowy and dim, twilight turning to evening, evening fading into night.

It wasn't strange, of course—none of it; they had shared living space for years now, at school and at the Burrow during holidays. Still, it felt new. It felt temporary, yet simultaneously permanent—like they were in a brick house for now, and they planned to go to a house of logs, then finally build one of straw and expect it to keep them safe. They were the three little pigs, but somehow the story was moving backward… and the Wolf was closing in.

Bedtime had come. Hermione stood up and stretched her arms. She rummaged through the beaded handbag for the three sleeping bags and rolled them out onto the faded blood-red carpet in the centre of the sitting room. They had pushed the furniture aside to make room for themselves. Ron, pushing a heavy armchair toward the wall, had grunted to the others that it felt like they were fortifying the walls, but Hermione and Harry—perhaps, though she didn't like to think of it, because he had slept in a cupboard for so long—felt uneasy in the open space. At least they were in it together.

It wasn't strange to be together, no—but it was slightly different this time. They were cooking for themselves and sharing a closet (well, a magically enlarged handbag—but a closet when it came right down to it). All of their clothing was beginning to smell the same—the dry, powdery perfume smell of the handbag—and it was anyone's call as to whose pair of underwear one might grab when one tried to get dressed in the morning.

She heard thumping footsteps climbing the stairs. Her heart sped up for an instant as Ron returned, bearing two glasses of water. Putting one down a few feet from the head of each of their sleeping bags, he sat down on his and tossed her a quick smile. It was a curious smile, and it came with a crinkled brow.

"Alright?" he said, cocking his ginger head to one side.

She looked at him for a long moment, tenderly. Then she caught herself, blinked, and walked toward him briskly. "Yes," she said quietly, dimming her voice to match the evening light. She sat herself down on her sleeping bag and looked across at him. He stretched and yawned. It made Hermione think fondly of Crookshanks, who, in turn, had always reminded her of Ron.

And then, suddenly, he said: "Hang on. Get up."

"What? What's wrong?" Hermione felt a jolt of anxiety as she quickly stood again. "What did you see?"

Ron stood up again as well. He walked toward the corner of the room where sat an ugly side table and two standing lamps with shades made of stained glass. These had been pushed aside with the rest of the furniture. There was a look of concern on his face.

"Ron, what is it? Did you remember something? Does it have to do with the horcruxes?" She followed him as he walked the length of the wall and examined the furniture: a gigantic wooden armchair, intricately but illegibly engraved; a round, blackest black coffee table; an armoire; a long, musty, green sofa. At this, Ron stopped, pulled out the sofa's three cushions and beat each of them against the coffee table. Closing her eyes to the cloud of dust, Hermione asked again, "Ron, what are you doing?"

"Can't let you sleep on this dingy old floor," he said, walking back to the centre of the room and flopping the cushions down in a row beside Hermione's spot. They nearly filled the gap between the two sleeping bags.

"What are you on about?" Her anxiety gave way to increasing amusement.

"Seriously, Hermione, this floor is revolting. You ought to sleep as comfortably as you can."

"Why me?" Hermione asked slyly. "There are three of us."

"Harry's not here, so he can scrounge for himself," Ron said, with a dismissive gesture as he lay her sleeping bag out on top of the cushions, now a mere few feet from his own spot.

"He's just brushing his teeth. And what about you, may I ask?"

"Hermione, use that gigantic brain of yours, honestly. Look at me. I'm simply too tall. I'd be off the cushions from the knees down—or from the chest up."

"I see," Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep from outright laughing, "Yes, I have heard that you are outrageously tall."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Now get comfy."

He plopped himself down again and took a gulp of water. Hermione sat gracefully down on her now softer bed.

Nothing was said for a few minutes more. She plaited her hair while watching him rifle through the handbag for a jumper, then put it on. She listened to him sip his water. She saw the dark ring left on the carpet by the condensation from the cool glass. Eventually she picked up her book and opened it to the marked page. For a minute or two there was quietude.

"Hermione?"

"Yeah?" She found herself whispering it.

"Thanks." He put down his glass, keeping his eyes away from hers. "I mean, for asking for company. I… I was going to ask, but I didn't want to come off as too… you know… forward…."

He looked up at her and a smile cracked onto her face.

"I mean, I just… I'm not being possessive, it's just that it's hard enough to have my family far away and not be able to talk to them, or know if they're okay, and I just sort of feel like I don't… want you out of my sight. You know what I mean?"

She did know. She absolutely knew. No one but Ron could stammer and falter and still have it come out as sweet nothings. And then before she knew it she had reached for him and hugged him so tightly that she was nearly in his lap, and he was hugging back, gingerly at first and then with a force unexpected. And now she _was_ in his lap, and her face was pressed into his shoulder, and she could have sworn she felt the brush of his lips at her neck.

"Ron." She sighed into his jumper. "Don't you understand? I don't want you out of my sight either, you prat."

She laughed a sob and then heard him exhale for a long moment, as though he had been holding his breath. Finally, he chuckled into her hair and loosened his hold on her. Then his hands were there too, combing through the waves and holding her head to his chest.

It was too tempting. He was too warm and too sweet. Harry would be back in the room any minute. She let herself linger for another instant—a generous instant. She breathed deeply; there was that smell again of jumpers and Ron and herself and the handbag and dust and a little bit of Harry. She sighed and let go.

"Goodnight, Ron."

"Goodnight," Ron said quietly, leaning forward into her a little as she moved back. He checked himself after a moment and said again, after clearing his throat, "goodnight, Hermione."

Later, after Harry had come in, after the remaining lights had been deluminated, after the shuffling of the sleeping bags had finally died down, and just as she was drifting off, she felt a hand at hers, sneaking over: quiet, warm, soft.

She took it. She held on.


End file.
